The Game Change
by little-godling-stuff
Summary: One year later, London celebrates the return of the Reichenbach Hero. Little do they know, something wicked comes their way.
1. Chapter 1

_Life is a game,_

_It's simple and true,_

_And all that you can do,_

_Is sit and wonder what's in it for you,_

_And how you play this game of life,_

_Well, that's up to you._

**_-Life is a Game by Angel of Love_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 1:**

No one in their right mind would doubt that Sally Donavan was a dedicated public server.

She was a police officer and an investigator, catching baddies is almost second nature. But one thing that Sally was that she wasn't always proud of was self-righteous. Her instincts that drive her to certain things and refuse to acknowledge the possibility of defeat had always been her one fatal flaw.

But one thing Sally Donavan was not is cold.

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant but he was also cold.

And Sally immediately pounced on the idea that the combination was a flaw in nature.

It just wasn't right to give a man this heartless the capacity to create and think in certain ways only a superhuman can. Though she would be loathe to admit that it did impress her, the way he could deduce and analyze as fast as the speed of light but that admiration died the second he opened his mouth and used that same prowess to humiliate and insult her as well as the rest of her colleagues.

Though Sally Donavan hated Sherlock Holmes, she would never wish him dead. Discredit him, maybe, as a grudge she couldn't resist giving in to. But not dead. And surely not the way he had thrown himself off that ledge.

Eight months of thorough investigation later, it had been for the reasons she had wrongly assumed. She had discovered, with the help of secret government agents, that there really was a man named James Moriarty. He alone had organized and killed and manipulated certain people that drove Sherlock to the ground. Sally being one of those manipulated people.

He had killed himself to save his friends because Moriarty had put a gun to certain people's heads and forced him to do such a condescending act. This was all found as a recording in Sherlock Holmes's phone. That same one he used to call John Watson for the very last time to say his goodbyes. That very same one he threw on the ground to be found and clear his name before he threw himself off that roof to save the people he cared about, proving Sally Donavan wrong again of him being a heartless psychopath.

Sherlock Holmes is an innocent man.

A disturbingly clever and sociopathic man but innocent nonetheless.

She felt so ashamed of what she had done. She had paved the way for Moriarty to destroy the one man that could've stopped the consulting criminal and she had let him used her. She had let herself be taken away by her bitterness and poison her better judgment.

She was jealous of Sherlock.

Everyone was jealous of Sherlock.

Even Anderson.

_Especially_ Anderson.

But none of that could bring him back.

None of this shame, empathy and repentance could bring the Reichenbach hero back.

Because Sherlock Holmes was exactly that, a hero. Albeit a dark one but a hero.

Sally shook her head to clear her thoughts.

She had only just seen on the telly before she got called to work about the news of Sherlock being proved to be an innocent man along with the Crown's support and gratitude to the man. It had taken a year to clear the consulting detective's name with the other two months of writing paper work and releasing it to the press and having the Prime Minister himself and some other high up government officials to present an award to the man who caught one of the century's most feared international criminal and gather all the other private cases Sherlock had solved all throughout his life and have been read all around the world with the help of a certain army doctor blogger.

_Honored like a hero, indeed_, Sally bitterly mused to herself.

She entered the scene confidently, privately admiring the entirety of the mansion. Marble walls and ceilings, Victorian chandeliers, elegant tapestries hung up the wall and exquisite interior. It was as if stepping into a smaller version of the Buckingham Palace. She took note of the guests, dressed in tuxedos and dresses as elegant as the manor itself. A simple and private cocktail party, she concluded.

But to whom this party was dedicated to was the real prize.

"Who's our victim?" she asked Lestrade who stood in the threshold, unmoving and gaping.

He gave no reply. In fact, his eyes were widened comically and his whole posture was rigid. Sally frowned. Who could've possibly evoked such an expression out of the Detective Inspector like that?

She stood behind him, peeking into the room, since he still was unmoving and gaping.

There she was. She had long and silky curls dangling behind her, a sky blue backless dress clung to her amazing forms and curves, her lips lush and pink and her grey eyes filled with tears about ready to fall. The prized and honored guest; Laura Lightwood, supermodel and pathologist.

But Sally could now see that Ms. Lightwood was not the reason of her boss's shameful and open gaping. It was because of the man crouched beside the dead body. The sight gave Sally a sense of nostalgia, disbelief, relief and a foreign excitement raging inside her.

"Think harder and I assure you, Lestrade, you will hurt that puny little brain of yours." He said. Sally had never thought in her entire life that she would miss hearing those insults.

Because they could only come from one man.

A man who now stood, alive and well and as brilliant as ever, before them, his sharp grey eyes analyzing like lasers for the slightest clues and deducing everything and anything.

Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**NOTES: inspired from the song Doomsday (Doctor Who Sountrack)**


	2. Chapter 2

_"You're going to have to be strong to resist._

_You can't kill an idea, can you?_

_Not once it made home.. there."_

**_-Sherlock Holmes; BBC SHERLOCK_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 2:**

"But you're dead." Were the next word that Detective Inspector Lestrade uttered.

Sally Donovan had gave her boss a look then, wondering if a year without Sherlock Holmes had Lestrade amnesiac on how to deal with the freak. For one, you do not bait the consulting detective into an intellectual challenge, not unless you're god. For two, you do not, under any circumstances, provoke the freak the need to insult you until you melt into a puddle of shame.

Lestrade was painstakingly going for the second one.

Sherlock Holmes had eyed the Detective Inspector with wild, morbid amusement in his sharp shark-like eyes, standing slowly from his crouch. He also had a slight smirk on his lips and his eyebrow slight raised. To those who did know Sherlock Holmes, they would never have noticed the slight emotions playing on his face, ever the sociopathic but brilliant consulting detective. But to Sally Donavan, who have known Sherlock Holmes for a long time, the changes were enormous and slightly unnerving. Sally had the slightest feeling that it held a foreboding quality to the undead detective.

A quality he could have only gained in hiding, being dead and god knows what else he'd been doing the past few months. It changed Sherlock, Sally concluded. But if it was for the better or for the worse, she wasn't sure yet.

"I would've thought that with me in death would have encourage you to develop some form of ability toward deducing and to be more intellectually challenging, Lestrade. I guessed I thought wrong." He said toward the Inspector sarcastically.

Sally had to roll her eyes in Sherlock's antiques. She guessed some things would never change.

"Dead or not, freak, you weren't invited in this crime scene." Sally snapped, having enough of the insults for one night. Sherlock looked at her with almost a glint of glee in his eyes as if he had missed her. Sally gave an involuntary shiver. Now, that was a thought she never knew she would think in her life.

"Oh, I invited him here." Ms. Lightwood spoke up, looking up at them.

They failed to notice that the beautiful hostess, still dressed in all her finery, had gracefully crouched beside the body, taking Sherlock's place of assessing it. Sally could almost forget that this famous being was also deadly intelligent, being the top of her class and graduating in one of the most prestige colleges in London. Though she may have some form of experience in her internship of these things she was not in a comfortable situation to be crouching, peering and analyzing a dead body. Especially since her eyes are almost red from the unwanted tears that seemed adamant to fall and roll down her cheeks. In the state that she was in, Sally thought it best to dedicate her attention elsewhere.

"Ms. Lightwood, the suspect that was brought in to custody," Sally started, looking into her little pad where she had listed the details while on the phone before she drove to the mansion. "What was your relation to him?"

"He's my boyfriend." Ms. Lightwood replied.

"Could you think of any reason why he would kill this man?" Sally asked seeing that Lestrade and Sherlock were eying each other up, possibly speaking in a silent language Sally had not learned yet.

"No," Ms. Lightwood said. "We don't even know this man."

"Travis White did not kill this man." Sherlock Holmes declared. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and was about to inquire how on bloody earth did he deduce that one out when a voice boomed just behind them at the threshold.

"What the bloody hell is he doin' 'ere?!" Sally had to refrain the smirk that was threatening to cover her face. Anderson had arrived.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock said as-a-matter-of-factly. "Perfectly slow as always. I'm glad some things had never changed while I was away."

"But you're dead!" Anderson demanded.

"This does not look good for you, Lestrade. Stooping down to Anderson's level of idiocy is too low, even for Scotland Yard standards." Sherlock sneered gleefully. Ever the insulting bastard. "As I was saying-.."

Sally had cut him off. "This still does not explain on you trespassing on our crime scene, freak." She snapped, her injured pride at having her workplace and colleagues insulted swelling out of her control. Sherlock smiled menacingly at her.

"I am not trespassing, Sergeant Donavan, and if you could have only deduced this using your poorly exercised intellect, it would have saved you the humiliation." Sherlock said.

"Humiliation? What humiliation?" she demanded, baited almost perfectly into Sherlock's Venus Flytrap hands. This, she realized all too late.

"You are too cruel, Uncle Sherlock." Ms. Lightwood said, her sharp grey eyes dancing with amusement and it looked almost too familiarly cold except for the slight sympathy she could see in them. Sherlock turned towards her in an intimidating and gloating way, his tuxedo ruffling a bit in the lights, the white rose in his lapel making him dashing, taking its rightful duty of completing his regal attire and complimenting his handsome features. She had realized too late, indeed.

"My beloved niece had invited me to this party in celebration of her doctoral, Sergeant Donovan. And as for the trespassing? I could not possibly trespass in my own home, now, could I?"

* * *

**NOTES: so, I recently discovered that I've been misspelling the name Donovan in all of my Sherlock fics. I googled it and found that it's spelled 'DONOVAN' instead of 'DONAVAN' which, right now, would have been obvious. But it wasn't before. Sorry for that. I'm getting all giddy writing this. It's relieving at the same time really suspenseful because even I don't even know what would happen next. I'm still waiting on that higher calling and stuff. Comment and stuff. XD**


	3. Chapter 3

_Fee, Fye, Fo, Fum,_

_Ask not whence the thunder comes,_

_Ask not where the flocks have gone,_

_Or why the birds have ceased their song._

_-**Jack, the Giant Slayer**_

* * *

**CHAPTER 3:**

Sally Donovan could never believe she felt sorry, shameful and sympathetic to that freak's supposed death. To think that she actually thought him a deserving _hero_! Well, he sure as bloody hell did not deserve it now, the little bastard. Her blood boiled in rage, her cocoa skin flushed and her hands balled to tight fists. She shouldn't be surprised of his behavior as she wasn't surprised of him being alive. To have the great Sherlock Holmes stooped down to earth would have been such a miracle people would declare him an imposter. She should have known, her feelings from before she discovered that he was actually breathing flew out the window without so much as a second thought, diving behind her thoroughly beaten pride.

It was a grand humiliation. In front of her co-workers, no less! The shame and mutilated dignity seeping into her very core, defining her, as he smirked one last time and turned back to the body, ignoring her completely. Just like he used to _do_ before the Reichenbach fiasco!

A small part of her told her she deserves it because. God forbids, she did. She deserve it so much it actually felt good. But her instincts and nature did not take defeat lightly.

"You-.. You little_ bastard_!" she screamed unprofessionally, her anger taking a toll on her, completely controlling her. Just like Moriarty.

And that thought was like a bucket of ice cold water dumped on her in a winter night in London.

Sherlock had turned at her, his eyes unimpressed and passive. But for a moment, she almost thought she had imagined it, but in those deep blue-grey eyes, it was almost like he knew. He knew what had stopped her short in her insults. And with Sherlock Holmes, it would have probably be a right deduction. The consulting detective would be proud.

She cleared her throat, seeing that Lestrade was about to resemble a storm cloud. "I apologize for my behavior." She said.

"You have every right-.." Anderson began.

"Shut it!" Lestrade snapped at him but in a low voice.

"It's quite all right, Sergeant Donovan," Ms. Lightwood said, looking at Sherlock, her eyes slightly reprimanding, as her uncle turned back to the body then pounced around the room, uninterested in the slightest. "My uncle had provoked you. He has that certain effect on people. Even the calmest of minds could not withstand his very.. vulgar behavior."

Then Ms. Lightwood's eyes switched to being adoring. She was _adoring_ Sherlock, like he was her favorite uncle Benny over for Christmas every year bearing gifts. On second thought, he was probably her _only_ uncle. She probably never had a choice. Poor lass.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Lestrade's voice broke Ms. Lightwood and Sally's converstation. They both turned to look at Sherlock, who was now standing on a chair, looking at the air vent with vigorous curiosity. It was a normal and typical looking vent, about a quarter foot tall and one wide. If you listen closely, you'll hear the steady but somehow slower and obscured beating of the ventilation fan inside. Sherlock had ignored Lestrade and Ms. Lightwood came closer to her uncle, looking at the vent with as much gusto as her uncle to Sally's distaste.

"Now, Laura, what could you tell me about the body?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Sally would have thought Ms. Lightwood would be at least be mildly surprised of her being addressed in a very demanding, commanding, impolite, impatient and inquiring tone. But to _her_ mild surprise, Ms. Lightwood barely batted an eyelash as she answered her uncle without breaking concentration on the vent.

"The victim was shot on the parietal lobe, the bullet lodging shallow in the cerebral cortex and he was dead before he hit the ground. The trajectory was in a high angle judging from the placement of the wound which means the weapon could be anything between a Barrett .50 cal or an AS50." Ms. Lightwood deduced.

"A what?" Anderson asked, impressed and shocked, clearly couldn't keep up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Neanderthal." he murmured.

Anderson shot him a murderous glance.

"Those are sniper rifles. How did you know that?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock turned his glare from Anderson to him.

Ms. Lightwood was a lot more patient and willing to explain.

"See, this room is located on the south corner of the manor. The outlying fields on this front of the house is mostly wild with bushes and short trees, unlikely to find a high ground that could pass through that vent. Higher grounds can be found in a span of a mile from here." Ms. Lightwood said as-a-matter-of-factly, pointing at the vent.

"Wait, how do you know it passed through the vent?" Sally asked.

"And the suspect was caught holding a gun?" Lestrade said, sounding unsure.

"Oh, heaven's sake, don't you see?" Sherlock snapped, impatience winning out.

"Uncle, please, be more patient," Ms. Lightwood said to him and turned to Sally to answer her question. "I was getting to that. Hear the fan in the ventilation system?" she paused and waited for them to listen. Sally had already noticed the slight noise but thought none of it. "The bullet hit that on its way out through the vent and shallowly lodging itself on the victim's brain. The bullet trajectory was far too high for it to be shot in here and, as I said before, shallow. There are only a few sniper riffles that could span on that kind of range. And if you would get the ballistic report, I'm sure it would further prove my deductions."

"He could have knelt while he was being shot." Anderson suggested.

Sherlock growled at the man for his stupidity while Ms. Lightwood's eyes held a barely contained rage inside them but kept her calm.

"True," she almost gritted out. "But the position of the body suggested that he had been standing whilst being shot. Unless, you suggest that my boyfriend somehow climbed a chair to shoot a man without said man putting up a fuss of being murdered by said boyfriend with an unknown drug in his system whom could be very easily over won by the state he was in even after he was dragged out of here, I would very much like to prove you wrong and I can think of a dozen ways to do it."

"Only a dozen?" Sherlock drawled, with eyes dancing with humor.

"I'm being merciful." Ms. Lightwood told him solemnly.

"My dear, the man doesn't deserve mercy for being an idiot." Sherlock said.

"Wait, drugged?" Sally pointed out, clearly missing out an entire picture here.

"Yes," Ms. Lightwood said. "The coppers showed, saying that there had been a crime within our walls. They found this room and Travis was barely conscious when they dragged him out in handcuffs. They found a .45 on his person and GSR on his hand." She glanced at the legal investigators. "And judging from your surprised expression, Inspector, you weren't informed as thoroughly as I would have liked."

"No," Lestrade said. "I was informed of a dead body and that the suspect was apprehended but nothing else."

Sherlock and Ms. Lightwood shared a look. Sally knew that look. John and Sherlock shared those as well. It was a look of complete epiphany, the case being solved in a click in Sherlock's lightning speed brain and the doctor catching up, not far behind.

"What is it?" Sally said, barely containing her curiosity.

"We're looking for a man who is a highly skilled shot with militia experience. Six feet and three inches tall with a six month old stab wound on his left side. Brown hair, Caucasian." Sherlock said with grim in his voice.

"Now, that is just outright ridiculous! How did you even know that he has brown hair and a stab wound on his side?" Anderson demanded.

Sherlock did not answer him straight away. "Sherlock?" Lestrade prompted.

"Because I've seen him." Sherlock said. The three Yarders looked shocked. "Because I stabbed him not six months ago."

"What?" Sally demanded.

"His name is Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in London. And this was a ruse to lure me out in the open. And I dare say it, he'd succeeded quite immensely."

* * *

**NOTES: so, I couldn't resist putting some forensic stuff there. Though, it's not the best, I hope it'll do. ****That whole sniper through vent thing is from Alphas. It's such an awesome show.** See ya on the next one. XD


	4. Chapter 4

_"All lives end._

_All hearts are broken._

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

_-**Mycroft Holmes; Sherlock**_

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:**

The room she had hidden herself in was simple and neat, childlike in a sense and designed to be a homemade laboratory in another. The bed was made in beige covers, the desk was filled with books, another table standing in the center filled with numerous laboratory gadgets and tools, the windows covered in formulas and equations written in erasable markers.

Sally knew it was very unprofessional to hide; the unbecoming of a sergeant. But she couldn't resist stepping out as the room crowded more and more until she felt that all the pressure that had built up would explode. Of course, if Sherlock were here, he would gladly call her an idiot and that the pressure was nothing but a trick of her weak and unintelligent mind. But Sherlock Holmes was not in her head. He was out on the loose, wreaking havoc into the world again, freshly dug from the grave, planting himself one step ahead of his archenemies.

Sally couldn't even believe they exist; heroes and villains. They seemed to have only reside in fairytales for her, stories mothers tell their children in order for them to be inspired to do good to other human beings. But then again Richard Brooks had been a children's show story teller. It spoke tremendous volume of the implications of their sides; the light and the dark.

The angels and the demons.

Sherlock Holmes admitted it himself he wasn't an angel. He was human. The cross between heaven and hell, chaos and order. Sherlock is a mediator. The conflict between utterly good and utterly bad.

_The fallen angel._

"Sergeant?" a voice spoke from the door way. Sally broke away from her thoughts. She didn't even realize that Ms. Lightwood now stood there, looking at her in concern. Probably deducing why she had hidden away.

_Great. Just what I needed_, Sally thought to herself.

"Ms. Lightwood," she almost sighed.

"Please," Ms. Lightwood said kindly, far from the cold and calculating stares of the Holmes' brothers. She extended a hand towards Sally. "Call me Laura."

"Sally." Sally countered as she shook hands with her. The raven haired beauty smiled.

"I'm sorry if we weren't properly introduced. My uncle could be very theatrical." Laura apologized.

"I'd probably deserved it." Sally half-joked with an awkward smile.

Laura smiled sadly. "What you need to understand is that Sherlock Holmes is a good man. He devoted his life catching baddies contrary to popular beliefs."

Sally snorted softly. Laura continued, "He's always been a hero to me. Ever since I was a child, he had always been there albeit intelligent, rude and inhuman most of the time, but solidly there. His walls are a defense mechanism. In this line of work, people you care about get hurt. This was proven right not a year ago. It's better not to care at all, to put people off the chess board and take them out of the crossfire. My father always told me sentiment is a disadvantage. But my uncle is still here, fighting with the same side that had shunned and discredited him."

Sally felt vulnerable, naked of the prideful armor she was usually clad in.

"So, tell me, Sally," Laura said, her blue-grey eyes burning with passionate devotion, loyally defending the man that Sally had personally destroyed. "What could we deduce of his heart?"

Silence had almost dragged on forever until footsteps could be heard and Mycroft Holmes strolled into the room, umbrella swinging in one hand.

"Ah, there you are, my dear," he said in a neutral voice and directed his greeting to his daughter but eying Donovan with an unreadable glaze in his eyes. Sally stared back defiantly.

"Sergeant Donovan." Mycroft curtly greeted.

"Mycroft." She countered. A moment of silence.

"Very curious, indeed, to have found yourself hiding in this room." Mycroft said.

"What do you mean?" Sally asked, frowning.

"Why, this is Sherlock's room." Mycroft said, his eyes dancing in amusement as Sally's eyes widened. He turned back to his daughter. "Now, come, my dear, it seems there is more to Travis's case than it appears."

* * *

Lestrade drove silently.

Well, he didn't utter a word to Sally but he was constantly on the phone. Some were from the press, from the Chief Inspector, from the forensics teams and some even from Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade was a very busy man now that Sherlock Holmes had walked into his life yet again.

It had been three hours from when Sherlock had stormed from the crime scene and out of his childhood home, two hours when Sally and Greg had left the scene and an hour to have hit a dead end. Travis White was released as well, but it wasn't as if he was in prison or a holding cell. He was over at St. Matthew's after fainting and convulsing over his way to Scotland Yard. The officers in charge, after checking his rapid pulse, drove him straight to the hospital.

Laura had left immediately after Mycroft announced the predicament her boyfriend was in to St. Matthew's. Lestrade, Anderson and Sally processed the crime scene, informed the family and started the paper work and chase for a killer whom the great Sherlock Holmes considered the second most dangerous man in London.

That wasn't reassuring.

Lestrade had gotten a call from Mycroft that Sherlock had finally popped back into the grid again after losing him when he stormed out of the mansion. Only one place that even a man like Sherlock Holmes would go to due to recent events.

He was in Baker Street.

He went and gone home.

* * *

When Lestrade hopped the stairs two at a time, Sally not far behind him, he heard shouting and shattering noises from the sitting room. Laura Lightwood was just outside the door, out of the line of crossfire. It seemed like an accurate pun considering the point of origin of the mayhem was a pensioned army doctor.

".. And did it ever occur to you what this-this whole _trick_ would do to Mrs. Hudson?! To Molly? To Greg? To _me_?" John Watson retorted at his best friend who was lodging at his chair, carelessly strumming his violin.

"Molly Hooper knew-.." Sherlock tried to snide in.

"I don't give a _damn_ who knew!" John snapped. Sherlock immediately shut his mouth, slightly shocked. "One phone call, Sherlock! Just one! Just so that I knew-.. Just-.. I asked you a million times for just one last miracle-.." John trailed off, his emotions getting the better of him. John looked at Sherlock then, his eyes pleading, relief and fury dancing together in an unsynchronized tango. They shared a look, a look Lestrade felt he was invading by standing there, by the door, unmoving. He dared not move a muscle in fear of breaking this fragile moment.

Lestrade knew the heartache John went through when Sherlock died. He would know. He was there. His limp had gone worse than ever, he barely laughed, his smiles were almost forced and he had that look of distrust in his eyes as if he saw Moriarty everywhere he went.

Lestrade couldn't blame him.

Lestrade felt the same way as well.

Lestrade blamed himself. It was his fault, all of this. He had done nothing to prevent it, pretended that he had just been following orders when he knew they were convicting an innocent man. He did nothing just so he could save his own skin. It was the most shameful act of cowardice and betrayal he could ever have committed and the lengths that Sherlock would go for him? The acts that he had committed in order for Lestrade to live?

He had to _die_, for Christ sake!

Where was his loyalty when the self-proclaimed sociopath, denying all forms of friendship, rude and cold detective had selflessly flung himself off a bloody roof to save the people he had cared about? Where was his sense of justice when they had jumped to conclusions with so little evidence and forsaken the solid and ancient truth? Sherlock Holmes may have been gleeful for men and women's deaths to ease his boredom but he had always did it for pure and simple reasons; to catch the perpetrator and save countless of lives from the same fate.

They had called hims heartless countless of times, called him freak, called him mad!

But in truth, he was always right and they were wrong.

They had been wrong to judge him, to accuse him, to discredit him.

To have been such blundering idiots that had unwittingly helped the madman dispose of the one man that could stand a chance against him.

And that alone had put them all to deep and unforgivable shame.

Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And he had _always_ been a good one as well.

"You could have let me know. You could have trusted me." John said after a moment of complete silence, drawing Lestrade from his thoughts.

Sherlock's steady gaze locked with John's the entire time.

"It was safer that way." Sherlock answered him in a low voice.

John Watson's face softened and saddened, remembering the recording on Sherlock's phone, remembering his _note_, remembering the way Sherlock had flung himself off that roof in front of his best friend to save the people he cared about.

"Is there a reason why you're here, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice without turning towards the Detective Inspector. John shifted slightly with his cane to get a good look at the visitors. He seemed to have forgotten or haven't noticed that he had some.

"Sherlock, is that-.." John trailed off, raising his hand weakly to point at the particular visitor.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said and got up in lightning speed, walking towards Laura Lightwood and bringing her forward like a perfect gentleman.

Lestrade almost gapped again.

Sherlock? A _gentleman_?

"John, meet my niece, Laura Lightwood." Sherlock introduced. "Laura, you know John."

Laura Lightwood stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Pleasure to finally meet the good doctor." She said brightly.

"You're-.. But you're a supermodel?" John asked dumbly.

Laura Lightwood chuckled gently while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes," she answered. "It's a pastime of mine. But my profession and passion solely belong to medical practices."

John tried to smile politely, still star-struck. He took her outstretched hand shook it. "The pleasure is mine, Ms. Lightwood." He said.

"Please, call me Laura, Dr. Watson." She said as they let their hands fall back to their sides.

"Then I insist on John, as well." John said then turned to Sherlock with a curious look on his face. "Sherlock, you never told me you had another sibling."

Sherlock snorted and Laura giggled. "Mycroft Holmes is my father, John." Laura said.

"M-Mycroft has a daughter?" John thought aloud. Then he seemed to have realized how rude that sounded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-.."

Laura cut him off gently. "It's okay, John. My father isn't exactly father material."

"I presume you did not come here to discuss Mycroft's parenting, Laura." Sherlock said, getting back to the business and eying the two legal detectives by the door. Lestrade and Sally shuffled in and took seats around the room, John limping into the kitchen to make some tea.

"I would like to help." Laura offered.

"And how on earth could you tell me what you came here for if you help John make tea?" Sherlock asked so much like a child. Laura glared at her uncle.

"I'll help him." Sally offered and without waiting for a reply, she got up and followed John into the kitchen, awkward tension already seeping off the two of them. Sherlock looked amused while Lestrade cleared his throat.

"I'm here to tell you about the development on Travis's case," Laura said, her eyes and face losing all the maternal and gentle care and in its place was a stoic, professional and detached mask much more like what the Holmes brothers wear.

"I've identified the drug," Laura continued, propping herself on John's usual chair. "It was cyanogenic glycoside; more specifically, hydragin. It's commonly found in house gardens, a plant called hydrangea. The poison causes shortness of breath, dizziness, fainting, and a rapid pulse, along with a drop in blood pressure that can cause convulsions and eventually, death. Thankfully it didn't reach that far with Travis but he's in the hospital now and under observation."

"Do you know anyone who would try to kill him?" Lestrade asked.

"No," Laura said and before she could continue, Sherlock cut her off.

"This was ruse to lure me out, weren't you listening, Lestrade? I have already solved this case. It is now irrelevant. You can catch you're assailant in the morning." Sherlock snapped.

"Why, that's very self-centered of you, Sherlock." Lestrade gritted out, frustrated on wit's end with Sherlock's rudeness.

"As I was saying, Inspector, Travis is a good man. He works for the government. For my father, more specifically. He never would have chosen him if he would cause any trouble." Laura said.

"Chosen him for what?" Lestrade asked.

"Travis White is my boyfriend but he is also my bodyguard." Laura said.

"That must've been quite a charming love story." John commented as he and Sally reentered the sitting room, teas in hand. They handed them out, receiving a nod of thanks except for Sherlock who just took the cup from Sally without so much as a glance which irritated the sergeant.

"Oh, yes, he was very dashing." Laura said with a bright smile.

"I still can't believe she's a Holmes." Sally murmured.

"I took from my mother, they say." Laura told her with amusement. "But my uncle is right. The case has already been solved the moment I found out what type of poison they used on Travis. I'd like to give her a piece of my mind in the morning but I was hoping to get a decent night sleep before I do now that I know what truly happened and my father had Travis guarded. The matter that is truly troubling is Moran."

"_Her_?" Sally asked. But before Laura or Sherlock could answer the question, John spoke.

"What's that?" John pointed at the muted telly, one that Sherlock had been absently watching while waiting for John to come back to the flat and Mrs. Hudson was away to her sister's. He had been watching it on mute, lip reading the dull shows to amuse himself. Now, the headline of the news read, '_Reichenbach Hero Back From The Dead'_.

John turned on the volume and all of them twisted toward the bright and colorful box.

".. _Police have no current leads on the case. But we do believe that Ms. Lightwood is alive and well._" The newsman said.

"_Harold, what is this rumor we've heard of Sherlock Holmes actually being at the crime scene after being dead for a year. Is this true?"_ the anchorman asked.

"_Why, yes, Jules, it certainly is._" The newsman said. "_Sherlock Holmes had dashed out from the main door himself and ran determinedly from the manor. We pursued him to ask him the question that is now on everyone's mind; _How on earth is he miraculously alive?_ But sadly, we never had the opportunity to do so._"

"_Well, if anyone would have the ability to come back from the dead, it would be Sherlock Holmes. Thank you, Harold. In other news-.._" he was cut off with a black. John had pressed the off switch from where he stood with the control.

"Sherlock," John said in his mildly inquiring tone but the heaviness of the tension in the room spoke another theory. "How _are_ you alive?"

"Elementary, Dr. Watson." Sherlock said with a grim gleeful glint in his eyes. "I stopped falling."

* * *

**NOTES:**

**to susieqsis: thanks a plenty for the favorite and I think Sally deserves it as well. XD**

**to James Birdsong: thanks. I hope this one will be a good one as well. XD**

**sorry for the slight decrease of quality in this chapter. I admit it is certainly.. BLEAK. haha. Because while it's 3AM from where I'm from and my brain is all smashed up together, I'm still trying to straighten things out. Though, I promise the next one will be a lot clearer and more thrilling. XD I hope you enjoy. Comment and stuff. XD see ya on the next one.**


	5. Chapter 5

_"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned._

_Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."_

**_-William Congreve_**

* * *

**CHAPTER 5:**

Onto the barren streets of The Boltons, in one of London's finest luxurious houses, the grandfather's clock chimes could be heard as midnight had finally drawn to encase the black night.

Three sisters smiled softly.

All three had the eyes of pale greens.

All three had hair as white as snow.

All three had faces as pale as ghosts.

The Gray Sisters.

All knowing, all helpful but with a price one might not be so willing to give.

Little is known about them.

If anyone knew them at all.

They are the ghouls of the dark.

The chill in the wind.

The demons of hell.

"It is time." One sister said.

"The wheels have turned, I must agree." The second sister said.

"All is in place." The third sister informed.

"There is little they could do to survive." The second sister stated with glee.

"They will play our little game." The third sister said.

"They must if they value their petty lives." The first sister informed.

"But one more than the others must know this pain." The second sister said bitterly.

"Our dear, Jimmy, will just die in delight," The first sister reassured.

"Once he knows who we have in mind." The third sister chimed in.

"And all that time he found himself scared and alone," The second sister grimly said.

"Will nothing but be paradise for the great Sherlock Holmes." The first sister said.

All three smiled in delight.

All three had come to claim blood from the fallen angel knight.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, yeah. Sorry it took so long. The story plot was a bit adjusted due to the spoilers. lol. I just thought it would be better to stick ****a lot closer** to the cannon than make up my own. It makes my life easier this way. lolXD. How Sherlock faked his death will be revealed soon. Just not yet. Let's saver the moment. Comment and stuff.

**BBC SHERLOCK IS NOT MINE.**


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